


Not a Robot, But a Ghost

by ghostfen



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, besides there is almost no tag for Tyrobot wtf, feelsy porn, not technically Tyrelliot but Tyrell sure thinks it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostfen/pseuds/ghostfen
Summary: He was only seeing what's in front of him.(Robot accidentally falls in love with Tyrell. Oops.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what time it is again, kiddos?
> 
> That's right!
> 
> Time for dicks and crying.

It started off as a power play, and an easy one.

Draw him in using Elliot’s sweet looks, keep him under his thumb. It’ll all be slick from there, he reasoned.

Robot winds his hand around his tie, hot breath on his lips - “Come on, Tyrell.” Elliot’s voice but rougher, put through gravel. With his free hand, he swipes everything haphazardly off the desk. Perches himself there instead, spreads his thighs invitingly.

“C'mon.” A tug at his leash tie, a drag of his calf against his waist. “You’ve wanted this.” He rolls his hips upwards, makes a show of it as he drags his bottom lip through his teeth and drawls out, “Take it.”

Tyrell obliges, his tongue down his throat in seconds.

It's carnal that time, a culmination of sexual tension that had been simmering for months. It ends with bruises on his hipbones, a chuckle in his throat and a contented sigh in Tyrell’s as they pass a cigarette between them. His cards are lined up as pretty as Tyrell’s lips against his knuckle.

It’s his move. And surely, his game.

___

“You should take it easy.”

Robot turns, raises his eyebrows at Tyrell’s advice. He thinks he’s fucking with him until he sees the knot in his brow, the weary concern in his seaglass-blue eyes. He heaves a sigh, fingers raking haphazardly through his hair.

“There’s too much to do. Can’t slack off now or we’ll have the FBI crawling up our asses.”

Tyrell’s elegant arms snake around his shoulders and his breath catches. He’s eye level with the coy smile playing on his lips, and suddenly his throat is dry.  
“Take it easy." Tyrell repeats, this time with his lips against his jaw.

How did he not notice that his shirt was undone at the throat, baring a tantalizing sliver of pale flesh? Robot feels his pulse stutter, his hands fisting in that collar and prying it the rest of the way open. Pearl buttons go flying, and Tyrell opens his mouth to complain until he’s silenced by a mouth full of tongue.

’Can’t have him worrying about me.’ He reasons, crushing their lips together bruisingly. ’Have to keep him satisfied or he’ll get impatient.‘ His hands are roaming the marble-smooth muscles of Tyrell’s chest and he’s ressuring himself, ’Back to work right after this.' 

Somehow, Tyrell manages to keep him occupied for two hours after they’ve finished.

___

The highway hums hypnotically as the taxi swallows up the miles, the freckled lights of the city skipping over Tyrell’s face as he stares out the window. Robot chides himself for noticing that. Tyrell’s jaw is tight, and his eyes are fixed firmly away - a pair of parallel lines supposedly bent on never intercepting him again. 

Muffled shouts echo in Robot’s brain, sounding submerged. The argument had left him spitting venom, so fast he’d hardly even realized what he’d said. All he knew is that there were tears in Tyrell’s eyes and he’d put him there. With his vitriol burnt out, he tried to gather up some of what he’d said, tried to apologize, but those teary eyes went cold.

Fuck.

There was still the hotel to get to, still six hours of typing, sharing close quarters, presumably avoiding each other’s gaze. Six hours of being associates. That word, for some reason, tore into Robot’s underbelly. 

Associates.

Pride burns like bleach, but he manages to swallow it.

He reaches across the car and links their fingers, startling Tyrell out of his thoughts. He stares at him for a moment, incredulous, his lips parting as if to ask, ’Why are you touching me?’

Instead, he closes them, and grips his hand right back, shifts his eyes to stare out the window again. 

Robot may be imagining things, but he could swear there’s a twitch of a smile there.

___

The pressure of Tyrell’s hips is harsh and grounding, and it’s just what he needs. He’s been getting in his own head too much lately. Pulling an Elliot, funnily enough. He rocks his hips back to meet Tyrell’s, a broken groan on his throat. 

Robot’s eyes crack open from the inertia at the top of a thrust and he meets eyes with him, breath hitching for a moment at the color. God, the color. It was almost painful to look at. He squeezes them shut again, rolls his head away. Tries his damndest to focus on the heat of his body, the grind of his hips, the rough spots.

There are hands in a vice around his wrists suddenly, yanking him back, forcing his eyes to snap open once again.

"Look at me.” Tyrell orders - begs? There's what sounds like raw pain to his voice, and Robot stares back through Elliot’s vast eyes.

“Please. Just look at me.” Tyrell repeats, softer.

Robot panics - he can’t handle being pleaded with. He parts his lips to say something but Tyrell catches his jaw and it’s too gentle. He swallows a lump forming in his throat, reaches up after to brush his fingertips along his jaw.

Tyrell smiles.

Robot’s heart flutters.  
___

He jolts awake lathered with sweat, finding himself on a hotel mattress next to Tyrell. Elliot must have had a panic attack, he figures through his racing thoughts. Tyrell stirs at the sound of chattering teeth, eyes blinking blearily.

“Elliot..?”

He doesn’t think to answer to it - that’s not his name, right? Fuck, his brain feels like it’s been put through a blender. He plasters his hands to his face, drawing in slow, rasping breaths.

“Elliot! Elliot, are you okay!?”

It’s the panic in his voice that yanks him out of it, more than the hands gripping his shoulders.

“Y-.. Fuck. Y-yes, I’m f-fine, I’m fine.”

His voice sounds alien, double layered. Who’s speaking? Which is it? “Fuck.” He heaves.

He’s wheezing without meaning to, drawing in cologne when he breathes in. His face is against something soft, Tyrell’s shirt? He buries his nose into it and greedily inhales, grips the sleeves so tight they wrinkle. Tyrell rocks with him slowly, his own heartbeat pounding against Elliot’s - Robot’s? - cheek.

“Are you-” Tyrell starts breathlessly, but he doesn’t get the chance. Elliot(?) has his lips smothered against him.

His brain is so overclocked, it can’t handle any more questions. Touch, lips, hands, fabric, it can handle that. Tactile, scent, yes, that’s far better.

He suffocates himself in Tyrell’s mouth until he’s pushed back, both of (all three of?) them gasping.  
___  
He squirmed and bit and begged and sobbed, thought, ’Maybe this could be a love story.' 

Tyrell cradled his head to keep his skull from hitting the headboard, and he cradled Tyrell’s head to keep it from pulling away. 

’Maybe we could be gods.’ He thought again, feverishly. ‘All three of us could. Maybe-’,

“-could be gods. We could be gods.” He heaves. Tyrell drops his head against him as if in prayer, falling into chant with him immediately. “Yes, yes, we could be gods. Are gods. Oh, Elliot.”

Robot’s heart seizes up, goes cold a moment - as if Elliot’s name really did come as a shock that time. Maybe it did. Maybe he’d forgotten that that’s who he sees.

The ache lingers throughout the remainder of their session, spreading through his chest until it’s a deep gulf. When Tyrell finishes inside him with a cry and collapses holding both of his hands, he lets himself sink to the bottom of it. 

Tyrell kisses him adoringly, sighs happily that he loves him. Robot croaks out a reply and his vision is bleary with unshed tears. He’s grateful it’s so dark.

He waits until Tyrell drops off to sleep in the crook of his arm to cry.  
___

What does it mean for a puppet to want, anyway?

He was a facet - a brash, disjointed piece of Elliot, broken off and sharpened like a prison shank. If he was in someone’s heart, it meant he lodged himself there, and it had been bloody. If someone held onto him, it meant their hand was scored, and they’d have an ugly scar to remember him by.

He was fine with that. Fine with being the battering ram, the firebrand, the hand that pumps the TNT. He was fine with blazes of glory, quick and fierce, elegantly simple, leaving nothing behind to overthink.

All he’s supposed to want is the mission.

But he knows when Tyrell glances over his shoulder at him, eyes still bleary from the computer, and smiles like seeing him makes his day, that he wants.

He wants.

**Author's Note:**

> I had much more planned for this fic, but I think I'm going to break it up into parts. Maybe make it into a short series. Who knows, I'm not good at committing to things. Thanks for reading, though. <3


End file.
